Paupertatem summis ingeniis obesse ne provehantur
One hande with winges, woulde flie unto the starres,
And raise mee up to winne immortall fame:
But my desire, necessitie still barres,
And in the duste doth burie up my name:
That hande woulde flie, th'other still is bounde,
With heavie stone, which houldes it to the grounde.
My wishe, and will, are still to mounte alofte.
My wante, and woe, denie me my desire:
I shewe their state, whose witte, and learninge, ofte
Excell, and woulde to highe estate aspire:
But povertie, with heavie clogge of care,
Still pulles them downe, when they ascending are.